


ginny weasley is a lot of things

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Hate Sex, Journalism, Office Sex, like they just fuck on the desk i dont know what else to say, pansy has long hair and ginny has an undercut we're going wild, spent too long thinking about outfits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:41:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21669907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Once, when she was on break, Ginny snuck in and sat at Pansy's desk. It was a blissful experience. Almost getting caught by Pansy was, too. The adrenaline was great. Ginny loves writing, loves doing something important again, but she misses the thrill of sports, of hanging hundreds of feet in the air and leaning forwards just a little bit more. Of feeling like she could fly off the edge of the world just to chase a feeling down into whatever the vast unknown held for her.Yeah. Avoiding Pansy feels a little like that. It aches. Ginny doesn’t like to think about it much. She powerwalks her thoughts and feelings away, because Ginny Weasley is a lot of things, but emotional self-awareness isn’t entirely in her vocabulary.Ginny raps on the door with a little more force than is entirely necessary, but Pansy did, like, commit war crimes, so she thinks it’s okay.orGinny Weasley is likely a disappointment to her mother, but that's a well-paying position, so she doesn't mind. Blaspheming after office hours is very fun.
Relationships: Pansy Parkinson/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 2
Kudos: 39





	ginny weasley is a lot of things

**Author's Note:**

> i like can't even be sorry for this except i'm very sorry for this

Ginny Weasley is a lot of things—a burnout jock, a disappointment to her mother, a little bit of an alcoholic—but she’s proud to say that she isn’t a divorcee.

She could have been. Should have been, probably, and then she would have been a disappointment to her mother about five years later. If she’d just stuck it out with Harry, who wasn’t a bad boyfriend by any stretch of the imagination, and then inevitably let it all go to shit. It would have all gone to shit. She’s positive of that much. She tends to ruin basically everything she touches, and she doesn’t know why the Saviour of the Wizarding World would be too different.

She digresses. She’s stressed, and when she’s stressed, she tends to dwell on what could have been had she simply stayed in the closet and dealt with marrying one of her best friends. It’s late on a Friday night, and she could be out getting wildly hammered at the Purple Unicorn, but instead, Ginny Weasley, twenty-five and in desperate need of some stress relief, is working overtime to finish this damn article. It shouldn’t be hard, except that it’s really _fucking_ hard, because Ginny Weasley is a lot of things, but she’s proud to say that she’s never been subtle.

Which is usually to her credit, except for when she’s supposed to be profiling the absolute jackass who’s trying to usurp Hermione Granger, youngest Minister in history. It’s hard to not be biased. She feels like, morality-speaking, she can’t write an article that _isn’t_ biased. Screw journalistic integrity. Screw it in the arse.

She hits her head against her desk for what feels like the eighth time this night. It’s almost seven, and she’s had to restart the article nearly four times. It’s about to be a fifth, considering the way spilled ink is spreading slowly towards her parchment. The editor of the paper, loathe as Ginny is to admit it, has had wonderful reforms, and Ginny has a perfectly adequate—if not clunky—desktop computer place upon her desk. Nothing quite does it for her like parchment and a quill, though, when she’s supposed to be working productively. Pens and phones are wonderful for reminders, but not for journalism. She’s got her Quick-Quotes Quill and a code of ethics that’s far superior to Rita Skeeters, so her ascent through the ranks of the Prophet was easy and fast, even if Ginny was one of the only ones in the office who hadn’t committed to the technology switch.

The editor is always on her ass about the speed (or lack thereof) with which Ginny puts out articles, though. And she’s sure today isn’t going to help her case at _all_ in the long run.

She can just hear the bitch’s voice graveling its way through her ears. _Weasley_ , it says to her, _you useless bint. Have you not learned anything about time management? Must I dock your pay? Oh, don’t make that face at me. I wouldn’t. Have to keep your family afloat somehow_.

Despite her words, though, Pansy’s let Ginny climb up the ladder of the Prophet with dazzling speed during Ginny’s approaching-three-year-long stay at the office. What a mindfuck that mess of a woman is. Ginny’s still not sure Pansy didn’t literally kill the last managing editor and bribe her way into his spot.

That’s not helpful to think about right now. What Ginny should be focusing on is how to make the wizarding equivalent of Boris fucking Johnson seem like he’s deserving of a writeup from a paper that does, shockingly, now that Pansy’s taken over, have some modicum of journalistic integrity and self-awareness in regard to its biases.

She cannot do it. She can’t do it. She’s too busy thinking about how she could be at home, putting on a low-cut top and some high-waisted shorts, throwing the top of her hair into a bun (Luna says she looks hot when she shows off her undercut, and Luna’s been watching a lot of Critical Role as of late, and Luna’s usually right about things), getting ready to head out the door. Which, to be fair, is a little bit of an anachronistic fantasy, because it’s just past seven, and she’s pretty sure the Purple Unicorn doesn’t even open until, like, nine. But that’s beside the point. What’s important is she could be settling in for a long night of rocking some chick’s shit (there’s little else that gets women going like Ginny’s Quidditch-hardened arms, even years after she fizzled dramatically out of the sports stratosphere) instead of a long night of unpaid overtime.

She pulls her headphones over her ears and cranks up the volume, mouthing along the words to Rebel Girl by Bikini Kill, not even feeling a twinge of guilt as she sings through the slur. She made peace with her sexuality years ago. That’s why Harry’s out of the picture.

Thankfully, that’s not why Molly’s disappointed. Her mother is a good person. Molly’s disappointment comes much more from a place of _I just think you could have stuck it out a little longer with the Harpies, dear_ and _How much does that job at the Prophet pay you again, Ginevra?_ It’s exhausting.

And entirely unproductive. Ginny groans. She keeps letting her thoughts get away from herself, from her work, from the fact that the sooner she gets this done, the sooner she can have meaningless sex in a stranger’s bed and pop a hangover potion down her throat.

She rolls her neck and cracks her knuckles one by one. This is probably going to be more difficult than four years of professional Chasing. Including every broken nose (it’s perpetually crooked, because Luna’s Episkeys have a little character to them) and every pulled tricep. They don’t compare at all to the pain of begrudgingly understanding the logic behind the economic policy of a political opponent.

Hours blur together, and Ginny thinks she probably has carpal tunnel by the time she looks up from her parchment and at the analog clock, hands winding their way to nine in the evening. She sighs, curving her back and popping out her spine. She needs a drink. Or, at the very least, a half-carton of ice cream.

She considers just sending Luna an owl to pick a movie to put on and Apparating to the store to purchase some sugars (she’s too knackered to go out clubbing tonight), but she still has one final stop before she can experience true relief.

Pansy’s office. Ginny shudders. She hates to admit how much she loves it in there. It’s almost homey, what with its massive antique-looking desk and comfortable high-backed chairs. Once, when Pansy was on break, Ginny snuck in and sat at the one behind the desk. It was a blissful experience. Almost getting caught by Pansy was, too. The adrenaline was great. She loves writing, loves doing something _important_ again, but she misses the thrill of sports, of hanging hundreds of feet in the air and leaning forwards just a little bit more. Of feeling like she could fly off the edge of the world just to chase a feeling down into whatever the vast unknown held for her.

Yeah. Avoiding Pansy feels a little like that. It aches. Ginny doesn’t like to think about it much. She powerwalks her thoughts and feelings away, because Ginny Weasley is a lot of things, but emotional self-awareness isn’t entirely in her vocabulary.

Ginny raps on the door with a little more force than is entirely necessary, but Pansy did, like, commit war crimes, so she thinks it’s okay.

(Harry always says to not think of it like that. Ginny’s moved on, and she knows Pansy has, too, but it’s still funny. It’s one of the only things she can say that causes Pansy to have a dramatic reaction. Now that Pansy’s stopped being such a bitch of a bully, it’s rare that Ginny can get a rise out of her. She misses it. The adrenaline of a verbal spat is nothing compared to flying, but it’s an alright substitute in a pinch.)

Ginny realises a second too late that it’s nine on a Friday, and Pansy is probably sipping expensive wine with a man ten years older than her in some upscale restaurant.

She’s surprised when the door swings open with an easy click. Pleased, too.

“Weasley.” Pansy’s very short. Just over five feet. Ginny is easily a half-foot taller than her. And she’s not intimidated—never has been—by the way Pansy carries herself, with the sort of confidence that shakes cities. Ginny can fake an ego too.

“Parkinson.”

“I’m your superior,” Pansy says, taking a step back. Letting Ginny into her office and not out of her sight. 

“Okay, Parkinson. What are you gonna do? Dock my points?”

“Five from Gryffindor,” Pansy replies, closing the door behind them with a click. It makes Ginny jump, and she can feel Pansy smirking at the way her shoulders twitch, the way she tenses.

“Damn you,” Ginny half-jokes, because they’re half-friends, and Pansy half-deserves it.

“To hell and back,” Pansy sighs. She sounds tired. Not that Ginny cares.

Pansy sits herself down primly behind the desk and motions for Ginny to follow suit. She holds out her hand, asking without her words.

Ginny places the scroll of parchment in her palm. She’s strangely nervous. She always is, because Pansy likes to read the article right in front of the writer, and Ginny isn’t exactly great at dealing with criticism, constructive or otherwise. Pansy swears it facilitates a more open dialogue between the higher-ups and the lowly toiling ants beneath her. Ginny just thinks she gets off on the power kick.

Soon—too soon, because that was one of the most sparsely-worded things Ginny’s ever been embarrassed to write in her career—Pansy claps her hands together. “Right,” she says, ponytail swinging (she started to wear her hair up when she became editor) as she leans forward, and Ginny prepares for a fight. “This was… well. I’ll let you defend yourself.”

Ginny’s bright blue blazer feels out of place in this earth-tones-coated room. Pansy herself is dressed in black slacks and a brown tweed blazer over a button-up with suspenders. The cream of her blouse is nice against her tawny skin. Ginny focuses anywhere except her sharply-lined eyes when she says, “I think he’s an arse.”

“Okay,” Pansy says evenly. “The thing is, I don’t care.”

Ginny rolls her eyes. “Let me just make it into an op-ed.”

“Can’t. We’re at quota.”

“Fucking hell.”

“Language, darling,” Pansy purrs. Ginny feels like she’s going to scream. She loosens her tie. She’s worn a tie to work every day, and never a shred of makeup. Ron says she’s a walking stereotype. She says nothing except for flipping him the bird.

“Fucking _hell_ ,” Ginny repeats. She feels decent about her status at the paper. Pansy never lets her get away with much, but it’s good fun to bend her rules just nearly to the breaking point.

“Whatever,” Pansy says dismissively. It smarts. Ginny wants to put her fist through drywall. She’s too antsy—sitting and working at a desk is hell far too frequently for her liking. Still, though, she can’t seem to pull herself away from this job. She really does love it, as much as Pansy gets on her nerves.

“I just think he’s a ninny and I hate him and it took a lot out of me to write even _that_ ,” Ginny says, words coming out of her in a rush. Her leg bounces, and Pansy gives it a cursory glance.

“I expected more from you, if I’m being quite honest.”

Ginny cocks her head, red hair spilling like fire over one shoulder. She doesn’t tie her hair up anymore. It gives her headaches. She doesn’t know how Pansy does it. “Oh?”

“You’re… decent,” Pansy admits begrudgingly. “With regard to your writing, of course.”

“You don’t have to confess your love for me.”

“I can and will fire you,” Pansy threatens, but it doesn’t hold much weight, because she threatens it at least once a week. “Anyway. I just really did expect more. I mean, of course, you’ll have to rewrite it, because content-wise, it’s both lacking in facts and in pizzazz. This is the _Prophet_ , dear. People pay for it, and I’d like to keep it that way. It’s your paycheck as well as mine that you’re writing. That aside, though, your grammar was just _terrible_. Really. Truly something else. Have you been high this evening?”

“I wish,” Ginny groans.

“Illegal.”

“You’ve no proof.”

  
Pansy hisses faux-sympathetically. “I’ve got more money than you, though.”

“In a post-Granger Ministry? There’s no sway to that.”

Pansy leans back in her chair and sticks one stiletto-clad foot atop her desk. Ginny wants to break the heel off the shoe. “You’d be surprised, oh naive one. Money and power are alluring to anyone, no matter the side of the war they fought on.”

It’s not common that Pansy brings up war talk, and Ginny doesn’t really know how to deal with it, because it’s not common that _Ginny_ brings up war talk either, so she decides to move on. And she’s really going crazy sitting down in this damn chair. She pushes herself to standing and demands, “What was so offensive about my grammar?”

Pansy puts her other foot up on the table and looks at Ginny from under her eyelashes. In their positioning, it shouldn’t feel like Pansy has all the power, and yet, it completely does. It drives Ginny mad. “I could pick through sentence by sentence, but I don’t think you’d like that very much, would you? No, I think it’s better if I just cast a little Incendio and have you write another. You could do it here. I could watch, make sure you didn’t stray too off course.”

  
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a sadist and a lunatic?”

“All the women I’ve bedded.”

Ginny chokes on air. “All the _what_ that you’ve _what_ now.”

“Don’t be so closeminded. Now, back to this piece of shite.”

All thoughts of Pansy and women and beds and very many compromising situations that Ginny would love getting caught in go flying out the proverbial window. “Excuse you,” she says hotly. “I would not call it _shite_.”

“Yes, well, I would, and my opinion matters, and yours doesn’t at all.”

Ginny bristles. “My opinion is wonderful and important, thank you very much.”

  
“I’m sure that’s what your mum tells you,” Pansy says condescendingly. When she moves her limbs to plant her feet on the floor again, Ginny catches a glimpse of her bare leg, and realizes that Pansy’s wearing a skirt. It seems odd. Pansy’s such a practical trousers-oriented kind of girl. Then again, Ginny’s learned a lot about Pansy’s orientations tonight.

“I’m a great writer, and you know it.”

Pansy rises out of her chair and comes around the table slowly, heels clicking. She’s still so small. She finds her way to right in front of Ginny, and she looks up cooly. “This seems to say otherwise. I could help you do revisions if you asked nicely.”

The offending piece of parchment dangles from her black-painted fingernails. Ginny lunges for it, mad, and Pansy sidesteps her with ease. Ginny’s hip slams into the side of the desk, and she kicks away the nearest chair. She braces herself up against the table, breathing hard. This bitch manages to get under her skin like little other.

Pansy smirks infuriatingly. “Let me just get rid of it for you.”

  
“I am not writing another one. I can’t write another one. I’ll do fucking anything to not write another one.” She’s being a little dramatic, yes, but it’s warranted. Ginny’s always right.

Pansy arches an eyebrow with deadly precision. “Anything?”

“Not anything. Shut up, slut.” Instantly, she regrets it, and she feels her cheeks burn.

Pansy laughs without a drop of humour. “Oh, my dear. Now I really will fire you.”

“Please don’t.” This time Ginny’s dead serious.

Pansy walks closer, each step torture. She looks Ginny dead in the eye, and says, “I’ll keep you around as eye candy.”

And because Ginny’s stupid and doesn’t want to be writing another damn version of this article and really, really horny, and Ginny Weasley is a lot of things, but she’s nothing if not impulsive, she grabs Pansy by the lapels of her soft brown blazer and crashes their mouths together. It feels like a self-fulfilling prophecy. A disappointment to her mother, indeed.

Pansy melts into her almost instantly. Or, not melts, because there’s always pure ice to her, and Ginny’s fire will probably never burn it all away. But she gives in, pressing their bodies closer together, shoving a hand through Ginny’s hair. Her palm brushes over the undercut, and Ginny grins into her mouth. Luna was right, as always. It is a chick magnet.

One of Ginny’s hands is still holding her up against the table, and it’s getting a little tired from supporting their combined bodyweight. She pushes herself up, grabs Pansy by the waist and the shoulder, walks her across the small room, and shoves her roughly against the door. The hinges rattle, and Ginny’s heart sings. She’s getting some action tonight after all.

Pansy’s fingers are nimble and strangely cold as they work their way down the front of Ginny’s shirt, unbuttoning with deft and practiced ease. Ginny kisses her way bruisingly down Pansy’s sharp jawline, matching each button with a suck and a bite against the soft skin of her neck.

“No marks,” Pansy hisses through her teeth. Ginny grips her a little tighter. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

Ginny breaks away for a second. “Turtlenecks exist, you daft spoilsport.” She goes right back to marking Pansy, and it seems to have convinced the woman, because she lets her head fall against the door and moans softly.

“Overtime is a good thing, actually,” Pansy says, breath hitching, as Ginny presses a leg between her own. “A deserted office is a great thing.”

  
“Don’t be such a smartass,” Ginny says, and shuts her up with another kiss.

Pansy grinds down against her easily, considering their height difference. Her hands tug at Ginny’s hair, pulling a groan out of Ginny’s throat and onto Pansy’s tongue. She’s certainly not fighting to be on top, but she’s not letting herself get pinned idly.

And then she shoves Ginny off of her with force. She’s a wreck against the door—shirt half-undone, blazer at her feet, wisps of hair coming out of her ponytail. Her lips are kiss-swollen and her chest is heaving and purple bruises haven’t yet started to form along her neck, but Ginny knows that they will.

She pulls down on the tie still clinging around Ginny’s neck. “Faster,” she says. “I don’t have all night. Nor do you. You’ve got an article to rewrite, don’t you remember?”

And that just about does it. Ginny shucks her own shirt and blazer to the floor and lets Pansy pull the tie a little tighter around her neck before taking it off altogether, standing there in her bra and her trousers and considering the wonderful fucked-up mess that has brought her to this moment, before finishing undoing Pansy’s shirt with shaky fingers.

“No wonder your handwriting is so terrible,” Pansy says dismissively. “With stability like _that_ —”

  
She never finishes, though, because Ginny grabs her suspenders and slams her back against the wall and sticks her hand under her bra, and the moan Pansy lets out is positively sinful.

“Fuck,” Ginny whispers, taking it all in. She feels on top of the world. 

“That’s the idea, darling,” Pansy shoots back. Her hands are braced against the wall, but she soon grows tired of that, and of the fact that Ginny doesn’t want to quit feeling her up, and pushes back away again. “Well? Get on with it. Don’t tell me you’re as bad at sex as you are at writing.”

“You’re such a _bitch_ ,” Ginny growls. 

“Yeah,” Pansy concedes simply. She breaks out of Ginny’s grasp and strides over to the desk, making a quick detour to the side of the room to grab two small sitting stools from a coffee table shoved into the corner. Knocking a few stray magazines and papers to the floor, she hops up on it, kicks off her shoes and her suspenders and her shirt and her underwear without any grace, and places each foot on a stool. She leans back on her forearms. Ginny feels her mouth go dry.

“What if there’s someone else here,” Ginny says stupidly.

  
“Are you telling me to keep quiet?”

Ginny grins wickedly. “I know you won’t be able to.”

“Oh, don’t get too cocky.”

Ginny drops to her knees with a laugh and flips Pansy’s skirt up atop her knees. She traces her fingers up Pansy’s inner thighs, and she wants to go slow, to tease, but Ginny Weasley is a lot of things, and impatient is most of them. She leans forward and licks roughly, and Pansy swears like she was made for it.

“ _Fuck_.”

Ginny goes at it with zeal, pressing deep. She feels Pansy readjust herself, pushing forward into Ginny’s mouth, balancing with one hand so that the other can tug fiercely at Ginny’s hair. They both want to be setting the pace, and they seem to be on course to outdo each other.

When she puts a finger inside Pansy, she feels her shudder, and she sucks hard. When she puts another one in, she feels Pansy’s grip on her hair get tighter. She can’t help but moan into her, and the vibrations set Pansy into motion.

“Fucking _go_ ,” Pansy says. Ginny’s happy to oblige. She sets a rapid pace, fucking into her with ease. Those Quidditch-toned biceps are nothing but a benefit. She curls her fingers inside Pansy, positive she’s hitting the right spot every time, because the noises her boss is making seem to indicate a fair amount of pleasure.

With her other hand, Ginny reaches down her own trousers, rubbing furiously at herself. She doesn’t trust Pansy’s acrylics to get near her, and, more than that, she doesn’t doubt that Pansy would use Ginny to get her off and then not at all reciprocate.

For some reason, that turns her on even more. She hates herself a little for the ease with which her fingers slip inside herself.

Pansy stops pulling at her hair and falls back on the desk with a sigh. “Come on,” she says, slipping out of her skirt at last. Easy access in a piece of fabric lands unceremoniously on the ground with a soft thump, and Ginny’s pants are quick to follow.

She climbs up on the desk—it must be hell on Pansy’s back, but she doesn’t actually care about her comfort right now—and bends down over her, biting her way across Pansy’s chest, sucking bruises onto her, delighting in the way Pansy swears and cries out her name like it’s a prayer. Down her stomach, down her thighs, and all the way back up, because her hands can do the job better than her tongue can.

She kisses Pansy, lets her taste herself, feels Pansy’s chest pressing up into her own as she arches off the table more and more with each rough twist of Ginny’s fingers. Pansy presses her lips against Ginny’s neck, not doing much other than breathing shallowly. Her ponytail is long gone.

“Nearly there?” Ginny asks.

“Maybe if you were better at your job, I’d’ve gotten there quicker,” Pansy protests. It falls flat, though, because her voice is breathy and high, and her legs are trembling. She pushes a knee between Ginny’s legs, and Ginny sighs out at the friction.

She fucks Pansy harder, faster, letting out her anger at her job and her life and her inability to go steady with anyone. She fucks Pansy with all she has, and Pansy reciprocates, pressing her leg up higher, letting Ginny grind down and rub herself against Pansy’s thigh until it glistens.

“Christ,” Ginny says. “Christ, Parkinson, I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Pansy lets out an abortive sort of grunt, and it shouldn’t be sexy, but it really is. “This isn’t getting you out of your rewrite. Also, swearing like a Muggle isn’t _cool_.”

Ginny hates her. So much. Her wrist is twinging slightly, but she doesn’t care, because she has to let Pansy know just how much she hates her, and she lets her know that by making her cum with a shudder and a moan, and Pansy lies boneless beneath her.

Ginny presses her fingers against Pansy’s lips and feels a rush in her stomach at the way Pansy’s tongue feels curled around her. “Gonna help me out?”

“No,” Pansy says simply, which isn’t a surprise, but is still very frustrating.

Ginny hops off the desk and leans against the wall. Pansy sits up to watch, leaning forward, palm in her hand, as Ginny fingers herself. Her other hand twists at her nipple. She can feel her hair sticking to the back of her neck, but she doesn’t care, and it doesn’t matter, and everything drifts away as she spasms against the wall, cumming around her fingers, and slides to the floor, completely spent. She sucks on her own fingers, then, the ones that were just inside Pansy, and just inside herself, and looks her boss dead in the eye, because Ginny Weasley is a lot of things, and bold to the point of stupidity is very high on that list.

“ _Christ_ ,” Pansy echoes.

“Swearing like a Muggle isn’t cool.” Her words have absolutely no bite to them.

Pansy slips off the desk with composure. Ginny’s shocked that she still _has_ composure. She finds her bra and clips it on with the hooks in the back, and steps into her underwear and skirt and shirt. She tugs her suspenders back up, and then her blazer. She tames her hair back into a ponytail.

“I expect a new draft of that on my desk by tomorrow,” she says. “And don’t think that you’ll be getting any preferential treatment because of this.”

Ginny rolls her eyes. “Fuck you.”

“I’ve been there and I’ve done that. See you at nine sharp tomorrow. Don’t care that it’s a Saturday. You have a draft due, and you spent tonight slacking off instead of working.”

She casts one last disdainful look over her shoulder before striding out the door.

Ginny bangs her head against the wall. She thinks she’s got a new bad habit to hate herself for enjoying.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos/comments are always appreciated !


End file.
